


Okay in the End

by PenelopeAbigail



Series: Whumptober 2020 [22]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Dark, Do These Tacos Taste Funny To You, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Captivity, Traumatized!Peter, Whumptober 2020, Withdrawal, day 22, hurt!Peter, little said but a lot of implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeAbigail/pseuds/PenelopeAbigail
Summary: He hadn't wanted this. None of this was his fault. Not a moment went by that she didn't pity him.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Mary Jane Watson
Series: Whumptober 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955698
Kudos: 14
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Okay in the End

**Author's Note:**

> Day 22  
> The prompt is lighthearted, but this story is very much not. Well, it can be, but the subtext implies that this is the brightest day for them and the rest have been darkDarkDaRk.

MJ was happy.

She hadn’t been happy in weeks, but this actually made her smile and laugh— _genuinely_ , not out of habit or as a reaction, but because she _was_ happy.

It surprised her—not her being happy, no, she hadn’t realized in the moment that she was happy nor had she thought about how she hadn’t been happy for a while. What surprised her was waking up to the smell of something burning, something on fire, smoke slowly meandering up the stairs.

It’s worth mentioning here, for the sake of confusion and context, that she and Peter had been staying at May’s. The house in Queens offered more privacy than either of their apartments, and May didn’t mind because she had been at the shelter so much.

That worried MJ. It seemed like the older woman was spending far too much time away, coming home late at night and leaving early in the morning. The three of them hadn’t spent but two meals together in the three weeks that Peter’s been home. MJ hoped May wasn’t avoiding her nephew on purpose, though she wouldn’t blame her if that was the case. It was hard to see Peter like this—this shell of his former self.

Mary Jane knew that this was all very hard on May. Aside from all the chaos that had been going on for these last several months weighing on her heart, she was inevitably facing numerous inquiries about Peter’s health from the citizens at FEAST. Everybody loved Peter, so his absence was guaranteed to raise questions, as would his return.

May was a generally private person, but she couldn’t withhold _every little detail_ from all the inquisitorial squad. MJ only wondered— _not worried, not upset, but just curious—_ what May was telling them. Was she telling them of Peter’s condition and his shortcomings— _unlikely, knowing May’s optimism—_ or was she telling them of Peter’s recovery?

Which partly contributed to her happiness that morning—his recovery.

She woke slowly, quickly morphing into alarm when she realized something was burning, and she darted down the stairs, chasing the smoke.

It was coming from the kitchen, and she briefly wondered if she’d left the stove on last night before she saw Peter standing there in front of it.

_What was he doing?_

_What was he burning?_

_Was it his suit again? MJ thought she’d hidden it so well._

_Or was he burning_ himself _?_

Too many dark thoughts passed through her head before she was close enough to see what was going on. She instinctively knew that she needed to _stop him_ above all else, so she approached from the side hoping he wouldn’t startle, and she grabbed his flailing left arm to still it—and that’s when she noticed.

Pancakes.

Some were beautifully golden-brown on a plate on the counter to the left, and more were coal black in the trash on the right. The one currently in the skillet was completely burnt on top—and still smoking.

Pete was trying to make pancakes— _and had succeeded with five of them_.

She gently removed the spatula from his trembling fist and flipped the black one into the trash. There was more batter in the bowl on the left, dripping over the side, and making a mess— _actually, there was mess everywhere, flour all over the counter, on the floor, and in his hair, batter on his clothes, butter smeared through the flour like he had knocked it over and it slid across the counter._

The sight was hilarious, and after a moment to take it all in, she stepped back to laugh.

_Pete was trying to make pancakes._

He smiled brilliantly as she laughed, and she really missed that, so she smiled back, eyes crinkling at the edges and hair askew from sleeping.

 _Today was going to be a good day,_ she decided then and there.

She glanced at the clock to see that she woke only ten minutes early. He needed to take his meds at seven every morning—he’d probably been trying to get it all ready for her by then—and normally she had to wake him, but not today.

Although, judging by the twitching in his muscles, he probably hadn’t been able to sleep last night.

He was slightly sweating, too, though that could be because he’d been standing by the stove all morning, but most likely not.

Maybe today wouldn’t be as good as she hoped, but she could still do her best to make it easier for him.

Today was the third day of his withdrawal.

They’d finally reached the stage of detox where he was completely dry. He hadn’t had a drop of heroin in three days. She remembered now that 72 hours was the peak for most withdrawals, so he’d probably woken from muscle spasms and nausea or something.

He did have bags under his eyes, but to be fair, he’s had those since he was rescued.

He didn’t do this to himself— _of course, Peter would_ never _do this to himself._ The police and doctors think that whoever had captured him had started dosing him with high quantities of heroin to calm him and distract him from the pain they had inflicted.

So today wouldn’t be that great, but it didn’t have to be super bad either.

First, Pete had made her breakfast, so she in turn was going to make his breakfast.

The smoothie blender was already out on the counter, so she grabbed the frozen strawberries and blueberries and then the milk. A banana for potassium, too, and within minutes, he had two smoothies waiting for him.

She divided it into two separate glasses and stuck a straw in both, turning around to set them on the table, and seeing that Pete was already sitting there smiling, waiting for her, having already put her pancakes on a plate with butter and syrup near.

That same warm smile reappeared on her face and she stopped to just look at him. That was so sweet and thoughtful. After everything, he still had such a kind and caring heart. That was something that couldn’t be tortured out of him.

She set the smoothies beside him before sliding into her chair across the small table.

“Thank you for this, Pete. It means so much, you don’t even know.”

He smiled and nodded, but didn’t make a move for his drink.

She noticed that immediately, but decided to give him a moment, started digging into the pancakes he laid out for her.

Only a couple of moments passed before his smile disappeared, and she questioned, “You feeling alright?”

He shook his head and looked down at his lap. She hated it when he did that. He had nothing to be ashamed of, and she told him so, further inquiring.

“Pete,” she spoke firmly, “You know you have nothing to be ashamed of. I will never be ashamed of you either.”

Head still ducked, he brought his eyes back to hers.

“You’re not feeling well. Are you feeling sick, or is it pain? One or two?”

He held up three fingers. Both. And the stub of his right arm spasmed, slamming hard into the edge of the table, causing him to grit his teeth and wince, rubbing it with his left hand.

Spasms, sick, and in pain? Withdrawal symptoms.

It was still so early in the morning, which meant it was just going to get worse. At least he could still smile at her.

Distantly, she heard the morning alarm on her phone jingling from upstairs and remembered that it was time for his meds.

He knew it too, closed his eyes and sighed, hopping up unsteadily on his messed up knee before she could move— _his reflexes still sharp as a knife_.

Retrieving his pills based on the chart pinned to the fridge was simple and easy. Swallowing them when he was feeling sick (probably nauseated) wasn’t.

He hated it when she “babied” him— _she did_ not _baby him, she was just concerned, probably overly so, but regardless, she got the message—_ so she held back her “you can do it” encouragement, knowing that he really didn’t want to hear it right now.

Through everything, he was still strong, so he popped the meds in his mouth and took a good long gulp of his smoothie, washing them down.

He grimaced and closed his eyes, holding a fist over his mouth like he was going to be sick, but MJ just waited. There wasn’t anything she could do, anyway.

After a minute, he must have felt better because he popped up suddenly lively and excited, shakily stood up and came around to her side.

Without one arm, it was difficult for him to sign things, but they made do. He pointed to himself and brought it toward her, saying that he wanted to show her something.

She nodded with a mouthful of pancakes, eager to see why he was bouncy all of a sudden.

He crouched down slightly and opened his mouth, baring his remaining teeth— _there! In the back of his mouth! Teeth emerging from his gums, two of them, side-by-side!_

Hope surged anew, and she sprang up with a short squeal to hug him.

His teeth were growing back! And after only seven weeks, too!

He hugged her back, laughing as he could.

If he could regrow missing teeth, then his tongue could definitely regrow, too.

Maybe his arm, as well? But _how would that work? Would it take as long as it would a baby to fully form in a womb, so short like a few months? Or would it be more like over the course of several years as one would grow up?_

This was revolutionary!

Normal humans didn’t regrow bones like this, so—he suddenly doubled over with a grunt, holding his abdomen and shaking, eyes squeezed closed.

She knew he didn’t want her pity, didn’t want to even see it in her eyes, but she did pity him. How could she not?

None of this was his fault. Every single thing had been thrust upon him without his consent, most likely as he actively fought against it.

Not only had he disappeared without a trace and had been tortured for _weeks,_ but through it all, they’d forced upon him an addiction to _heroin_ —an addiction so strong that after his two-week stay in the hospital, he had to stay an additional two weeks in rehab, and even with all that detoxing, he had only been _halfway_ clean. It’d taken another three weeks to get to where they were now, weaning him off completely.

The doctors had said that the amount of heroin swimming through his veins when he had been found would have killed a normal person.

He hadn’t asked for this. None of it was his fault. Not a moment went by that she didn’t pity him.

He was still mentally sharp as he ever was, so she knew that he _knew_ that she felt bad for him. He knew that she only wanted to help, and he knew that he _needed_ help.

She could see it in his eyes that he hated what he had been reduced to, and she knew without a doubt that if he still had his tongue, he’d yell and shout and have a grieving fit born of anger and frustration. Now, he just cries to release his emotions, and somehow, that’s even worse.

She’d take the yelling and shouting and breaking things over silence and tears because at least he’d be talking, he’d be telling them how he felt, what happened, and _how they could help him._

It was probably very hard for _him_ to not pity himself.

He crumpled further there on the floor as she knelt by his side, rubbing his back and humming, giving him something to distract from the pain. His entire body was shaking and burning hot. His shirt was wet with sweat, and he whined as his legs spasmed beneath him, toppling him into her lap.

The third day was supposedly worse than the others when it came to withdrawal, and she’d be by his side all the way to ensure he got through it with as much comfort as she could provide.


End file.
